


a soul that's born in cold and rain (knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

by Yevynaea



Series: love, love settles my soul (the ineffable husbands daemon au) [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - His Dark Materials Fusion, Asexual Relationship, Canon Timeline, Daemon Touching, Friendship/Love, Gender Identity, Holding Hands, Intimacy, Love, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Post-Canon, Short One Shot, Souls, pure unadulterated adoration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 08:51:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19943455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yevynaea/pseuds/Yevynaea
Summary: Angels, and, by extension, demons, do not have daemons. Humans are quite unique, in that sense. Big souls, humans, all full of love and emotions and curiosity and free will, all too big to be kept properly in their bodies. Demons and angels do not have daemons. None ever have.This changes on a very particular Saturday.





	a soul that's born in cold and rain (knows sunlight, sunlight, sunlight)

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Lord help me i'm back on my daemon au bullshit.  
> 2) As far as gender hcs, I see Aziraphale as agender, but he always defaults to male-presenting bc it's simpler, so i figured his daemon would be fem. Crowley's nb/genderfluid, so his daemon goes by they/them.  
> 3) Jaffe is Hebrew. the "j" is actually a "y" sound, and it's pronounced like YAH-fehy, with that not-quite-short "e" sound you usually get in Spanish.

Angels, and, by extension, demons, do not have _daemons._ Humans are quite unique, in that sense. Big souls, humans, all full of love and emotions and curiosity and free will, all too big to be kept properly in their bodies.

(Aziraphale has, generally, gotten along fine by pretending to have a small daemon tucked away in his jacket somewhere. He’ll smile, gently pat a pocket, apologize for his daemon’s shyness.)

(Crowley has, generally, tried not to tell the same lie twice, because it’s ever so much fun to confuse the Heaven out of people with little enough tact to actually ask about his lack of an obvious daemon.)

(On a few memorable occasions, Crowley has agreed to pose as Aziraphale's daemon, because as little as he likes being in snake form around people, that's overshadowed by his strong desire to create Drama and Minor Chaos wherever he goes. People meeting sweet little Mr. Fell with his waistcoat and his warm smiles, and then noticing the _fuck-off-huge black snake_ curled on top of the counter next to him, is a fantastic way to create Drama, in Crowley's opinion.)

Demons and angels do not have daemons. None ever have.

This changes on a very particular Saturday.

  


They don’t even have time to panic about it. Not properly. That will come later.

 _Now,_ they are an angel and a demon standing outside of time with the Antichrist, while the boy’s soul presses hard against him in the form of a wolfhound, trying to be big enough to protect and yet soft enough to comfort.

 _Now,_ Aziraphale speaks-- _“And whatever happens, for good or for evil… we’re beside you.”--_ and the words ring True, and when Crowley starts time around them again there are swirls of golden light in the corners of their vision, just slightly to the left of the physical realm, but they’re much too distracted to pay it any attention.

It isn’t until After, later, when they’re alone together in Crowley’s flat and puzzling over Agnes’ last prophecy, that the light solidifies into shapes, which then slide smoothly into corporeal existence in the middle of the bed.

“ _Whfcgk,”_ Crowley exclaims eloquently, tumbling backward off the mattress completely.

“Oh dear,” says Aziraphale faintly, glancing between the demon and the two cats on the bed beside him. Pale golden Dust shakes loose of white and black fur, and Aziraphale draws in a breath.

“What are they?” Crowley asks. Then, when his angel gives him a _Look_ , he revises his question. “What are _we?”_

That’s the better question. Aziraphale tries for a small miracle, turning his pillowcase a light cream color instead of slate grey. He then unfolds his wings, and takes a moment to feel for his Grace, assuring himself that everything is in order, that he’s still an angel.

“This doesn’t make sense,” Crowley says, after running through a similar checklist of his own, turning the pillowcase back, much to his angel’s chagrin. “We aren’t _human_.”

“But… we _are_ on their _side_ ,” Aziraphale says, holding out a slow hand to the white-furred cat, who purrs and rubs against his palm. There’s a moment of shock, then a warmth, a Rightness, as he touches his daemon for the first time, as he becomes a dual entity, angel and daemon-- not extensions of each other, but halves of one individual. The white cat then turns into a white rabbit, and behind it, the black cat chirps and turns into a ferret, and Aziraphale pauses. “Are they supposed to do that?”

Crowley raises an eyebrow.

“Only for children,” he replies. “Then again… _we_ might be old, but _they_ aren’t.”

He reaches out to the ferret, which pushes against his hand and then becomes a black rabbit, identically mirroring its paler counterpart. _Mirror._ The demon freezes, hand still against his newly-born daemon’s head. “Angel,” he says, “read me that prophecy again.”

  


(When Heaven comes for Aziraphale, they know he’s gone native the moment they see the daemon peeking out of his coat pocket, the little grey field mouse with its fearfully-twitching nose. The whole walking-into-hellfire-unscathed thing is still a nasty shock, though.)

(When Hell comes for Crowley, they know he’s gone native the moment they see the daemon fluttering on his shoulder, the large white moth with its nervous, black-spotted wings. The whole bathing-unharmed-in-holy-water thing is still a nasty shock, though.)

  


It’s six days before they think to name their daemons. The naming itself is also a slow process.

(“Doesn’t that mean ‘gift’?” Crowley asks, wrinkling his nose a little, and absently petting the head of the little black snake curled over his shoulders. “This little menace isn’t a gift.”

“It does,” Aziraphale confirms, “and they most certainly are.”

The snake hisses, pleased, and Crowley scowls.)

(“That’s a bit on the nose, don’t you think, dear?” Aziraphale asks, even as the dove currently nesting in his hair coos happily.

“That’s half the fun,” Crowley dismisses. “A little joke for just the two-- four of us. Two of us?”

Aziraphale shrugs, a little helplessly.

“I’ll think about it,” he says, in the sort of tone one uses when they have already thought about it and decided the answer is _absolutely not,_ but they don’t want to be rude.)

  


The new daemons shift near-constantly through shapes and genders, trying to find the forms they’re meant to be. They cycle through big animals, small ones, birds and reptiles and mammals and insects-- extinct creatures, even.

It’s not until nine weeks out from the Failed Apocalypse that Crowley’s daemon finally settles, and it takes an additional eleven days for Aziraphale’s to follow.

(“Ridiculousss,” Crowley hisses, on day two of those eleven, glaring disdainfully at the almost-crow perched on his shoulder, even as he indulgently scratches the top of its head. Jaffe ruffles their feathers, leaning into the contact. “You should’ve ssstayed a snake.”

“Then we’d just be two snakes,” the crow protests. “That’s dumb.”

Jaffe is unrepentant, despite the way they’ve settled not-quite-correctly, a little Odd for what’s expected of a crow. They have gold irises, for one thing, the same color as his own eyes. Their legs seem a bit too _shiny_ for bird's legs, too-- if someone looked closely, they'd notice the little black scales. Despite the serpentine features, though, Jaffe is very much a crow. They are also very much a perfect match for their demon, even if Crowley will never admit it.)

(“Oh, how lovely,” Aziraphale murmurs, on day eleven of those eleven, smiling at the form his daemon has settled on. “We’ll have to show Crowley when he comes by for dinner.”)

Later, when Crowley comes by for dinner, he freezes at the sight of Aziraphale, and Jaffe gives a panicked, indignant _caw_.

“Angel,” Crowley starts to demand, “have you--”

“Settled? Yes, I believe we have,” Aziraphale interrupts, with a book in his hands and his daemon sprawled over his lap, a great white and yellow beast with Odd, endless-sky-blue eyes.

“You’re replacing me,” Crowley says, only half-joking. Aziraphale scoffs. “Really, angel, a _snake_?”

“She’s an albino Burmese python,” his angel corrects, snippy. “I looked it up.”

They note the curt tone, and Jaffe nips at Crowley’s ear with their beak, self-scolding.

“Right,” Crowley says, taking his sunglasses off, and meeting the other snake’s gaze. “Well.” He looks at her, then at Aziraphale, taking in the both of them, the perfect picture they make, sitting there. “...She suits you, angel,” he admits softly, and Aziraphale grins, bright and lovely.

“Of course she does,” he replies, putting his book down, curling his arms beneath his daemon’s coils, and standing, letting her adjust herself until she’s resting looped over his shoulders like an oversized scarf. “I’ve always liked snakes, why shouldn’t I be a bit of one?”

“Always liked them, hm?” Crowley smiles, a little cheekily, as the angel approaches him.

“Oh yes,” Aziraphale confirms. He gets a familiar expression on his face, then: the gentle, sly smirk that means he’s about to be a little bit of a bastard. “One in particular.”

Crowley feels his face heat up, and Jaffe’s feathers ruffle, and Aziraphale looks much too pleased with himself. He sweeps past Crowley, out toward the front door of the shop. Crowley takes a moment to collect his thoughts.

“What name did you go with, then?” he asks, following Aziraphale, shoving his sunglasses back on his face as he goes.

“The one you suggested, dear,” Aziraphale replies over his shoulder. “We decided it fit quite nicely, after all.”

Crowley stops dead in the middle of the bookshop. Then he laughs, unrestrained, and rushes to catch up with his angel, planting a kiss to the corner of Aziraphale’s mouth before he can think better of it. Aziraphale looks surprised, and his daemon tenses for just a moment before relaxing again.

“Of course you did,” Crowley says, fond. He opens the door with a snap, and steps out into the crisp London evening. “Come on, angel.”

Aziraphale catches his hand, still standing in the doorway. Crowley is afraid for a moment that he’s overstepped, done something wrong-- but Aziraphale just holds his hand, staring at him with such _love_ that it nearly knocks the demon right off his feet.

“My dear,” Aziraphale starts, then hesitates. His eyes flick to Jaffe, and Crowley realizes with a jolt what the angel wants to say, just a moment before he says it. “May I?”

“ _Ngk,_ ” Crowley says. Then he swallows his fear, and tries again. “Yes.”

For angels and demons, their wings might be considered the closest comparison to a human’s daemon. While not their soul, not in the same way, wings are pieces of their True forms, the energy, their Selves beyond corporeal form. Preening another’s wings is not inherently sensual, but it is _intimate_. Aziraphale has preened Crowley’s wings before. A few times, in fact.

This is similar, but, somehow _more_ \-- equivalent to reaching past his wings, touching the Truth of him behind them _._ The first brush of soft fingertips against Jaffe’s back is like fire, like lightning, like drowning, like _falling_ , and Crowley draws a quick inhale, too-human heart beating hard in his chest. Aziraphale hesitates, and Jaffe gives a reassuring rattling sound, not pulling away from the touch.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley says, barely above a whisper, raising his free hand and holding it in the air, hesitant, waiting.

“Of course, dear,” Aziraphale says, as his daemon flicks her tongue out in amusement, and slithers forward, around Crowley’s wrist, cool scales resting against his palm when she stops. Aziraphale gasps, but then smiles, fingers running through Jaffe’s feathers.

“Hello, Crowley,” says the angel’s daemon, those too-blue eyes set over what could be called an adoring smile, if snakes had the faces for such things.

“Hello, angel,” Crowley replies easily, one hand caught by her coils, the other still held fast in Aziraphale’s grip. “Hello, Eden.”

They stand there, together, the two-four-two of them, for a long few moments, before Aziraphale seems to remember himself, seems to realize that they’re standing in the open doorway of the bookshop.

“Right,” he says, pulling back his hand from Jaffe, and recollecting Eden. Crowley and Jaffe deflate slightly at the sudden lack of contact, despite the fact that Aziraphale is still holding Crowley’s hand. “Dinner. We were going-- dinner.”

“Dinner,” Crowley repeats, smiling softly at Aziraphale’s flustered state. “Right.”

“Right,” Aziraphale says again. He steps forward, out of the doorway, and snaps his fingers to close and lock the door behind himself. “I’ve been meaning to go back to Mrs. Kulkarni’s place-- she’s been practicing her grandfather’s biryani recipe. Let’s walk, since the weather’s good for it.”

He pulls Crowley along, down the street, their hands still clasped together.


End file.
